


One Civil Conversation

by reallyquitegay



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon Universe, Character Death, Comfort, Death, Enemies to Friends, Enjolras - Freeform, Enjoltaire if you squint, Fluff, Forgiveness, Friendship, Grantaire - Freeform, Just read it and cry with me, Les Mis - Freeform, Les Miserables - Freeform, Ouch, Victor Hugo - Freeform, also enjolras is now cannonly afraid of bugs and thats it, based on the book, but like it is if you squint, honestly this is depressing, im really sorry, its as much as victor hugo made it to be, its not actually enj x r, oh also major les mis spoilers lol, so basically their book deaths, theyre literally bleeding out yall, yup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reallyquitegay/pseuds/reallyquitegay
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire were both shot. They both die. That's established. What was never established was that they didn't die right away. Instead, they spent their dying breaths sharing memories, thoughts, and fears, finally accepting each other the last chance they got.That is: I came up with this idea and immediately started crying so I needed to share it with the world.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	One Civil Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THIS NOTE!!!!!!  
> Hey! I just needed to let you guys know that this fic mentions dying a lot, and it has a lot to do with the feeling of slipping away, so I strongly advise skipping this one for now if you aren't emotionally healthy (if talking about death in any way could be a trigger for anything). I don't want to encourage anybody hurting themselves in any way, shape, or form, so if that is an issue for you maybe this isn't the best thing right now.
> 
> So that's your trigger warning.
> 
> Otherwise, go forth! Read on!

There’s a sweet sentiment in the notion of death.

It’s stereotyped as darkness, an absolute mugging of life. It’s supposed to be terrifying, it’s supposed to be threatening. However, that’s just because it’s unfamiliar. You only die once, so there comes a time when you only have one more breath to take. It’s inevitable. You can go in so many ways, sometimes you can choose and sometimes you cannot. But either way, it will happen. And maybe, just maybe, death isn’t as bad as it’s made out to be.

Or at least that’s what Grantaire was thinking, sitting up against the wall, folding into himself in pain.

The men who had shot him hadn’t been looking; they were doing it with their eyes closed. They winced as if they were the ones being shot. Then as soon as most of their shots were out, they hurried out of the small room, refusing to look behind them, and Grantaire knew why.

It wasn’t because of him. Certainly not. He hadn’t hurt anyone, nothing was forcing them to kill him. He was just a drunkard who would have seen death as being put out of his misery. There was no reason not to pass him over as just another ugly face to use a target.

No, it wasn’t him.

It was the person beside him.

The loud soul of a hero, a marble face that resembled the gods. A figure so perfect that he appeared to just be a flower in a human disguise. He was a statue that held the young hope and passion for a new world, the words promising light at the end of the tunnel. Everything from his golden hair to the pristine curve of his cheeks, not caved in from any horrors, was perfectly angelic.

That’s why they acted that way.

Shooting a flower, an angel, a god. That was a sin.

Shooting a man was not.

Shooting Enjolras was a sin.

Shooting Grantaire was simply a memory to feel guilty about during the early morning.

But nevermind that. Grantaire’s mind was still clouded with his sudden acceptance of death that he failed to notice that the statue standing above him was cracking.

He was snapped out of his own head when he heard the sound of a strangled scream, a noise that made the bullet through his chest ache harder than it had before. He reached up to grab Enjolras, to bring him down to the floor with him, but reality began to come back. The burning sensation of bullet holes through his body definitely was not what he expected when he ran upstairs. He expected to see the disdainful glance of his leader, then darkness. But not this. This was worse.

Thankfully, though, he didn’t have to encourage said leader. Enjolras collapsed next to him. Grantaire, who was too emotionally numb to do much of anything, looked over at him. Tears were beginning to stream down his once perfect face, which was now scrunched in pain. He gripped at his own shirt, trying to rip the hurt away. The blood just seeped through and stained his hands. He finally gave up and let out another scream, the one noise in the silence of death.

Grantaire felt his heart break more than it already was. Enjolras falling was like a giant touching the ground.

Leaning over, he took his hand and enlaced their fingers. Their grip had been ripped apart when the soldiers fired. “Hey,” he got out, “just hold on.”

Enjolras looked over at him with a sense of disturbed helplessness. “Hold on to what, Grantaire? I’m… it’s…” his voiced trailed off. His eyes lightened a bit, and he pulsed his hand. “It failed.”

“Sure it did.” Grantaire had always been painfully aware of his upcoming death. He didn’t care anymore. Who were they to change anything? “It failed a long time ago.”

Enjolras broke eye contact and forced his breathing. Breathing shouldn’t be something you have to think about. His gasps seemed like they hurt, as he gritted his teeth and the death rattle in the back of his throat grew louder. Grantaire, facing the same issue himself, gave up. He pulled the other in closer so that he was resting against his chest. “Now I’ve got you… You know, it’s funny. This is it. We’re never going to have to be afraid again. We won’t have to feel anything again. It’s almost calming. We’re sort of invincible, if you really think about it. We don’t have to be afraid.”

“Yeah? Well I’m pretty afraid.”

Grantaire felt his throat close up, but he fought against it. “Of what?”

“Of the future. France’s future,” he sobbed.

“France will be just fine. You made your statement. Tomorrow, the people will rise up again. You know they will.” He readjusted his grip on his hand. “Don’t stress over it.”

There was silence for a moment. Life was futile. The silence echoed and the humid air smelled of broken blood. It was hard not to choke on it. The world finally seemed still, and soberness a gift more than a blessing. Death was his new fascination, a new intoxication.

“Grantaire?”

He nodded.

“I am sorry.”

Grantaire cringed at the sudden shock of those words. “For what?”

Enjolras shook his head. “For treating you like you weren’t one of us. For hating you and treating you crudely, and refusing you so many times. Refusing you a smile, a word, everything. I’m sorry I missed out on you.”

Past tense.

“You had your reasons. Heck, I don’t care about any of this. I just liked being around you guys because you bought me drinks.” 

Enjolras gave an attempt at a laugh. That laugh turned into coughing, then gagging. He spit out blood into his free hand and stared at it in shock.

Grantaire continued to talk, rambling, hoping that if he fell back into himself than maybe everything would make sense. “You know, that’s not why I was always tagging along. It was because… if I’m honest it was always because of you. You’re inspirational. You’re this sort of flame, I can’t really explain it. I don’t know.” He felt dizzy. “You made me feel like maybe I could be more than myself, I felt stronger when you were around. You’re what I wanted to be, who I wished I could spend every day with, who I…” he shut his mouth.

Enjolras wiped the blood onto his coat, where the red blended into the red. “I guess what I’m saying is, I’m sorry that I never got the chance to be your friend.”

Those words shot Grantaire all over again. He forced back tears. “Why not start now?”

“Grantaire, that’s just the thing- “

“No. Listen to me.” He racked his brain for any and everything he ever wanted the leader to know. I lied about where my apartment is, I’m a secret insomniac, I’ve painted you before. But, none of those words came out. What do you say to sum up an entire life’s worth of missed connections? He finally admitted, “I was afraid of the dark.”

He snorted in amusement, turning around. “What?”

“Ever since I was little. I would even keep a candle burning while I slept, and figured that if anything burnt it was fate. In fact, I bet you that it’s still burning now.”

He winced at this sudden stupid revelation, expecting Enjolras to give him further rejection, further pain through a snarky remark. Instead, he muttered, “I was afraid of beetles.”

“Bugs?!”

Of anything, he didn’t expect for such a determined, passionate person with the capability of changing the world to be afraid of something so small and insignificant as say, a ladybug.

“Yes. But I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Right,” he smiled. “What else is there?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “My favorite color wasn’t even red.”

“Oh?”

“It was blue, like the sky.” That would make sense. “I used to watch the birds fly with Jehan back when we first met. He wanted to do it one last time before we started fighting, but I…” He grew quiet.

Grantaire, eager to change the subject, interjected with: “I preferred dogs over cats.”

“I liked the rain.”

“My favorite season was winter.”

“I’m a killer for a good pun.”

Grantaire felt a genuine smile pulling at his lips. A good pun. He rested his chin on the top of the other’s head, finally feeling true, compassionate honesty being shared with him. After years of fighting for just one civil conversation with Enjolras that wouldn’t turn into him being drunk-shamed, he was finally getting a little piece of his soul. Warmth grew in his chest, and it wasn’t from the fact that he was bleeding out. It was a distant, yet familiar feeling that suddenly filled him head to toe. Happiness.

Grantaire was going to die happy.

“I can’t wait to see them again,” Enjolras sighed, his body still shaking.

“Who?”

“Our friends. They’ve already… I guess you can assume.”

Oh.

He had noted the fact that there was no way they all survived, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it. In that moment, though, for some selfish reason, he hoped that they were all there, waiting for him. That they wouldn’t have to live with the traumatic pain of their friends’ demises.

“I bet you Jehan will already have written us a song,” he joked.

Enjolras closed his eyes, as if trying to remember their faces. “He’s got us flower crowns, too. He’ll probably be calling them halos. And Combeferre, he’s probably disappointed about this, but he’s also probably planning an attack on the monarch from beyond the dead.” 

He tightened his grip on his hand. The air seemed thinner, harder to get enough of. “And Courfeyrac is probably just rooting for us to join them. We are pretty stubborn, hm? The last two to go? He’s with Marius, I’m sure.”

“Ha, Marius. Remember the first time Marius and I debated? I knew then that he belonged with us, yet Courfeyrac still insisted on hogging him. I’ll get to know him better soon, too.”

“Huh.”

Enjolras didn’t respond. Rather, he began coughing again. It was a horrid sound, like the scraping of bones and raw tissue together. It had a lingering effect that took over his entire body until he quite literally threw up blood. He refused to do anything about it, he just squeezed his eyes shut and began muttering things quietly to himself. Grantaire looked at him in concern as he continued to grip at his shirt.

“Are you…?” it was hard to speak, every word hurt.

He tried to answer, but was too busy searching for a breath that wouldn’t come. He squeezed his hand so tight that it lost feeling, curling into himself. Grantaire, in confusion, simply held him closer. He was dying, there was no question. He kissed the top of his head, trying to ignore how his golden hair was sticky with blood.

“Thank you.”

He wasn’t sure exactly who said that, it could have very well been both of them in unison. But it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

Enjolras’ grip on his hand finally loosened, his coughing ceased, and his breathing slowed to a stop.

And that was it.

Grantaire suddenly felt empty, numb. His only company was now a corpse. He closed his eyes, not really wanting to see what would haunt his soul probably out of death itself. He hunched over him, kissed his cheek, and rested his head on his shoulder.

His own death was soon, he knew it. He had been holding it off in a desperate attempt to spend every last moment of his life shrouded in happiness. However, the shoulder he was leaning on was becoming disturbingly cold, and the pain from his wounds was starting to fade in an apathetic way.

Death was only a step to the side. It was merely a world away, a dimension where smiling is permitted and fear and pain doesn’t exist. You live to change the world that you will watch over forever in death. The world was interesting enough without him, all of the changes he would have made fell with his friends.

His friends.

What was the use of sitting on the floor of the upstairs in a bar, holding someone who could no longer feel you? Why continue using broken bodies when they’re no longer a necessity? Why continue pushing yourself when you are obviously not going to make it?

There is no answer.

It was no longer scary, it was no longer a depressing afterthought. It was a promising intervention. The best die young. The bravest accept the charm of what is neither darkness nor light without question. Life no longer matters when death reveals itself to just be a shy doorway to a ghost’s view.

It happens.

So, Grantaire, deciding his last fatal decision, realized that it would all be alright. It wouldn’t be all over, he would just be observing himself and the world from a far. It wouldn’t hurt anymore.

He felt Enjolras’ hand still in his. “I really did love you,” he murmured, and attempted to speak again. However, he felt strangely paralyzed.

His body gave in to the temptation of crossing over. He didn’t try to stop it.

For a moment though, his mind lingered on.

It wasn’t until the true silence filled his head did he accept it. Death wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good. It trapped him, yet secured him. It was simple. 

Later, their bodies might be found laced together, bloody yet peaceful. It might raise questions, it might create a false political identity for both of them, or it could do nothing. No matter what, the barricade had fallen and they had all been escorted away from their own broken bodies. No matter what, they all had died.

It was his turn. 

So surely, with little hesitation and much excitement, he slipped away, dying for a cause he finally believed in.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! Thank you so much for reading this ah  
> This fic is sort of sentimental to me because I've #almostdied before (not by being shot tho lol I was just hella sick and almost hospitalized cuz sometimes our bodies suck) so... yeah I just figured I'd put that there. The whole dying part is sort of written on my own experiences so... yeah.
> 
> As always, kudos and reviews are much appreciated. 
> 
> -Dani


End file.
